In the Name of Peace
by Miroslav
Summary: In the aftermath of Harry Potter's sixth year, everyone in the wizarding world is going to have to come to a decision on what is best: peace without their rights or a war with freedom. [Death, 6th book spoilers, slash]
1. Prologue: Some to Misery are Born

(Author Notes: This is the prologue to "In the Name of Peace." It is set after the 6th book and therefore you should expect that it will contain 6th book spoilers. Ever since I read the HBP, I have been craving to write this, and now I finally had the time to begin it. I hope you all enjoy it.

Warnings: 6th book spoilers, violence, death, slash (there is one gay pairing later on).

Copyrights: All of the characters in this story unless otherwise noted belong to JK Rowling. I can safely assure you that I am not her. The chapter title is a line from _Auguries of Innocence _by William Blake.)

**In the Name of Peace **

_Prologue: Some to Misery are Born_

It was only until Scrigemour had shut the door of his office behind him that he allowed a slow, pleased smile to spread across his lips. So the old fool was finally dead. Good. That would make things much easier from now on. He could finally get things done that Dumbledore had prevented, the doddering imbecile.

He sat down at his desk, ravaged face thoughtful. Almost absently, he opened one of the desk drawers, pulling out three official-looking documents. Running a finger beneath the first name on the list, he murmured the name to himself. Stan Shunpike. Wasn't that the one that Potter had wanted him to free? Then this would be the one to make an example of, while Potter was still grieving his beloved mentor. In the midst of the country's mourning for the Hogwarts headmaster, Scrigemour could finally implement the first of his numerous plans.

Now that false witness could finally be called forward to testify against Shunpike to the top Aurors, and the man would be executed promptly. And after that the other two that had been arrested would be executed as well, but in a few more weeks. The public needed to be assured of his efficiency, and what better way to be efficient than to execute several Death Eaters?

Scrigemour looked up, frowning, as the door to his office was suddenly thrown open. "Weasley, you know you are to knock, even in an emergency," he snapped at his assistant, not at all pleased at the interruption. After a moment, he noticed the man's frantic state. "What _is _the matter?"

"Sir...surely you've heard...I mean, someone just told me...Dumbledore, he's..." Percy Weasley was trembling all over, freckled face pasty white with shock. Even his normally picture perfect attire was in disarray. He swallowed hard, unable to speak the terrible words.

"He's dead," said Scrigemour in a matter-of-fact tone. "Killed by Severus Snape, if Mercurial was right when he told me." He smiled darkly. "Severus Snape, the man that Dumbledore trusted above all others." How...ironic. He noticed Weasley still looking devastated at the news. "Weasley, sit down." The man gestured at a chair, and Weasley immediately collapsed into it. The Minister of Magic tried to turn his tone gentler; after all, he didn't need his assistant having to take a holiday to recuperate from a breakdown. Not when Weasley was so concise and first class when it came to his paperwork.

He looked gravely at the trembling redhead. "It was a grave shock to me as well, Weasley. I expected Dumbledore to outlast us all! But surely you must understand that even great men die during war. It was tragic, yes, but unavoidable."

Weasley was still pale, and shook like a leaf in a tempest. "Yes, sir it was unavoidable, of course, but-but...sir, think of the morale! Hogwarts was a safe haven for-for so many people. So-so many will lose hope at this, so many will-" He was crying by that point, tears streaking his face and dribbling onto his mussed robes.

Scrigemour scowled. Weasley made a good point. He hadn't thought of the impact Dumbledore's death would have on morale. Stan Shunpike's execution would have to be done swiftly and surely. The people needed reassurance, and if Stan Shunpike had to be the scapegoat, then so be it. He looked at the official document, and picked up a quill, and as Weasley sobbed and buried his head in his hands, calmly signed the document for Stan Shunpike's execution.

* * *

Charlie hadn't quite believed it when he'd returned from a two-week long pursuit of an injured Antipodean Opaleye in the vast forests of New Zealand and bought a copy of the Daily Prophet.

Every single story in the newspaper was of Headmaster Albus Dumbledore. There was an entire page of quotations by his close friends upon being asked how they felt at hearing about Dumbledore, ranging from, "I'll make you wish _you_ were dead!" by Mad-Eye Mooney to "I am more concerned with the children, and haven't I said that there are to be _no _reporters here?" by McGonagall. There was a page of a concise historical timeline about the man, from Dumbledore's birth to when he had gone to Hogwarts, become a professor, fought against Grindelwald, fought against You-Know-You, and at last been betrayed by his closest ally, the ex-Death Eater Severus Snape. Well, make that formerly ex-Death Eater. He was probably You-Know-Who's right-hand man now. There were entire pages of accounts of some of Dumbledore's eccentric habits, told by former students or former professors of Hogwarts, and even as special section from the former Minister Cornelius Fudge.

On the front page, of course, were both a picture of the man that everyone had respected and many had loved, and the painful details of his death.

Charlie's hands trembled slightly, and he instinctively thought of his family. Hogwarts had been invaded, people had been injured, people had been _killed_... Ron. Harry. Who was going to protect them now? He immediately contacted his mother, and as her face appeared in the flames of the tiny fireplace he was astonished at how haggard she looked.

"I-I heard about Dumbledore…. Is Harry all right?"

"Of course...that boy has more lives than a cat," his mother said with a strained smile, but she glanced away from him, and he knew _something_ was wrong.

"And Ron? Is Ron all right?"

She still didn't meet his eyes. "Upset, but he'll be fine."

Charlie frowned. Why wouldn't she meet his eyes if Ron and Harry were both fine? Unless... "Hermione, then. Someone besides Dumbledore's been hurt, Mum, I can tell. What happened to Hermione?"

"It _isn't _Hermione or Ron or Harry!" His mother's outburst startled him, and he saw in astonishment that she was close to tears. "You could guess for a hundred years and you'd never think of who's been hurt!"

Charlie stared at her for a moment, and then suddenly knew. He wasn't quite sure how he'd suddenly known, but the knowledge was like a punch to the stomach. Perhaps it was because Bill and Fleur living happily ever after would be too much to ask of from Fate.

"Bill," he breathed out, incredulous. "Bill...what happened to him?"

"Fenrir Greyback," she whispered, and Charlie's vision turned black.

He blinked, and steadied himself on a chair, vaguely aware that he'd almost fainted. "Bill's...a..." The man swallowed, but continued, almost gagging at the horrible taste of the word, "...a werewolf?"

"No," said his mother, and she managed a weak smile, though her eyes grew luminous with tears. "Remus has managed to assure us of that at least. He was bitten while Greyback was still human, b-but..." She covered her face for a moment, and whispered, "His face... My poor, poor beautiful baby." And then she was suddenly gone. Perhaps her tears had put out the fireplace, or perhaps she hadn't wanted Charlie to see her weep. Whatever the case was, Charlie sank into the chair he'd been clinging to, dizzy with shock.

Bill...the handsomest of the Weasley lot. Not to mention the smartest and the bravest...

For the first time, Charlie knew was true rage, what true _hatred_ was. He picked up his wand, ignoring the trembling of his hands, and stormed from the apartment. He was going to make Greyback pay, and he knew exactly who would help him do it.

Oh, Greyback would regret dearly the day he chose to mess with one of the Weasley clan.

* * *

Percy had excused himself from Scrigemour's office, and now somehow found himself back in his flat. It was a tiny thing -- a bedroom, a bathroom even he could barely fit inside, a sorry excuse for a kitchen, and a living room/dining room. Yes, it was his flat. He just couldn't quite remember getting here.

Looking around, he sat down wearily on the tattered sofa. He wanted to bury his face in his hands and sob once more, but what would be the point. Dumbledore was dead, and now everything was ruined.

He almost moaned, and raked a hand through his hair. How could Dumbledore die? The man had seemed immortal How could he _die_? His fingers tugged at his mane, as though the pain would enlighten him. What was Percy supposed to do now? There had never been any discussion on what Percy should do if the headmaster had died! It had never been in the equation!

Percy threw himself to his feet and lurched over to the tiny fireplace. A second later, he called in a hoarse voice, "Lupin! Lupin! Lupin, I _must_ speak to you!" Desperation filled his voice. Only four people, including himself, had known what Percy had been doing since the end of the Triwizard Tournament, and two of them were now dead. Was this a sickening trend? Would he die next and then Lupin? Or would it be the werewolf and then the Weasley...

He called again, but there was no answer, and so he began to pace, mumbling to himself. Had Lupin also been injured in the assault on Hogwarts? Surely Lupin and the rest of the Order would have been there as soon as they'd learned of the attack

And so Percy walked back and forth from the sofa to the fireplace, over and over again, every so often tossing a pinch of green into the fireplace and calling the werewolf's name, all to no avail. Lupin was out of reach, and Percy was all alone.

The young man sank at last onto the sofa, letting his head loll back onto the backrest. He resisted the urge to cry again. The tears would be pointless, after all. Still, the stifling of his sobs made him remember those times of hiding before You-Know-Who had been temporarily defeated by Harry Potter. Everything had been dark and sinister then, and his mother had been pinched-looking and frightened, hands always on her belly where Ron and then Ginny had been forming. He had had to try so hard to keep Fred and George from sneaking out of the hiding places and getting them all killed. Those days had been as long as eternity, and now they were back.

Although this time he had no family that needed his aid. His father and mother were in the Order; they had safety in numbers. Bill and Charlie were far more competent than he could ever hope to be; they could protect themselves. Fred and George were rich; they could pay off the Death Eaters if they wanted. Ron was with Harry and Hermione; though Harry Potter attracted danger, Percy knew Ron would never die before Harry. Potter was just that sort of friend. Ginny...Ginny might have needed his help perhaps, but he had seen her silent disdain when he had last come to the house. No, his little sister wouldn't accept his help even had he offered it.

Percy stared up at the ceiling and noticed the cracks in the ceiling. He really should do something about them; otherwise his ceiling might fall down one day. The cracks blurred as tears again sprang to his eyes. It had seemed like only yesterday that Dumbledore had sat on this couch and tried to engage him in a game of finding the outline of creatures in the cracks. How could that cheerfully insane man be gone? How could that evening have been two weeks ago? How could that man be _dead_?

He closed his eyes, knowing he would have the repairmen in his flat the following day to patch the ceiling and destroy the cracks and the beasts Dumbledore had pointed out during their long conversation. If he didn't, Percy rather thought he'd go mad.

He sat there for a long moment, and just listened to the quietness. Well, it wasn't so much of a quietness as the softened noises of the city. There was the sound of the train gently rumbling a few streets over, close enough to hear but far enough away so as not to make the windows tremble. The muted wailing of an alley cat a few buildings down. The soft footfalls of someone else who was pacing just upstairs, beating out an anxious tempo of quiet thumps.

Percy wondered who else had thoughts weighing so heavily upon their mind that they too needed to pace. He didn't dare look up at the cracked ceiling to wonder this. He instead stood and went shakily into his kitchen to pour himself a drink. Water though; he had to be perfectly coherent if Lupin should manage to become available in the next few hours.

Glass in hand, he sighed and attempted one more time to contact Lupin, again to no avail. By Merlin, he prayed the man wasn't injured. Hopefully the werewolf would know what Percy was supposed to do now.

Well, scratch that. Percy knew what he was supposed to do. He'd keep on doing what he'd done for Dumbledore, only now he would talk to Lupin instead. Perhaps Lupin would know what to do with what Percy was going to tell him. Either that, or pass it onto someone who did.

For the first time, Percy wished he was a smoker, or at least had some sort of habit that could keep his mind off this entire ordeal. Smoking, fidgeting, chewing gum, he'd be willing to do almost anything at all to ease the stress.

After all, hadn't Dumbledore warned him that it was going to be _extremely _stressful as the headmaster's top spy in the Ministry?

(Author's Notes: I hope you all enjoyed the prologue of _In the Name of Peace_. Please remember to read and review.)


	2. One: And It Bears the Fruit of Deceit

(Author Notes: Thank you for your reviews in the prologue. I hope you also enjoy this first chapter. The twins are taking a central role for the moment, but Percy and Charlie and one or two other people who are still to show up will also be major characters during _In the Name of Peace_.

Warnings: 6th book spoilers, violence, death, slash (there is one gay pairing later on).

Copyrights: All of the characters in this story unless otherwise noted belong to JK Rowling. I can safely assure you that I am not her. The chapter title is a line from_ Human Abstract _by William Blake.)

**In the Name of Peace **

_Chapter One – And It Bears the Fruit of Deceit_

"It wasn't _my_ fault," Fred snapped, voice dark with suppressed rage, and he glared at his twin. Fury made his normally cheerful eyes blaze. "_You_ said the source was reliable, after all. How was _I_ supposed to know it'd help Malfoy invade Hogwarts?"

George stared defiantly back, even as his stomach began to twist into what he figured was some sort of Celtic knot. He'd always hated conflict, really, it distressed him (though he'd often hidden that fact with a trademark impish grin). And to have one's mirror-image looking at him with intense dislike, well, that made him even more miserable. He tried to sound reasonable. "I didn't say it was your fault, did I? All I said was--"

"Oh, so it's all in my imagination that you weren't trying to pin it on me when those Ministry blokes came sniffing around, eh?" Fred sneered. "I'm just being a total arsewipe, then?"

"Well, to be honest, yes," said George, and offered a tentative grin that vanished as soon as his twin snorted. He added, tone miserable, "C'mon, Fred. We both knew as soon as Harry told us about how Malfoy had gotten all the Death Eaters inside that the Ministry would come to call. Given, I expected them to wait for more than three hours after the funeral, but they have us bang to rights -- we should've checked that source more carefully, and you and I both know that--"

"We?" Fred snorted again. "Ilium was _your_ source."

Heat prickled underneath the skin of his face, and George heard himself say in a cold, cutting tone he'd never used before, "Maybe I should go to Percy and turn myself in then, since I'm obviously the one to blame. Perhaps our dear older brother would get a raise for bringing in one of the idiots who helped the Death Eaters get inside Hogwarts. I'm sure Percy would make sure my death's _painless_."

His twin blinked, and took a step backwards, blanching. "I--I... Now look, George, I was just..."

The cold, cutting edge to George's voice remained as he said, "You were just? You were just trying to beat on me because of what happened to Dumbledore. Well, guess what, Fred, I feel just as bad as you about what's happened, but I wasn't about to blame you for this whole bloody mess." He squared his shoulders, ignoring the Celtic knot in his stomach. "I'm going for a pint. I'll be back later." Snatching his wand from the table, he disappeared with a pop.

George appeared inside The Leaky Cauldron and sighed in relief. Everyone else seemed to be home, still mourning Dumbledore. That was good. He needed to get totally and unabashedly pissed, without worrying that anyone he knew would see him.

"Whatever'll peel paint, Tom," he said tiredly to the barkeep, and sank onto a stool as the man eyed him and then silently went to pour him a drink.

* * *

Oliver Wood looked up at the sky and swore. "Of all the..." Of course, the one day he'd left his wand at home the skies decided to rain on him. Shielding his head with his arms, he walked briskly towards the nearest covering as the first raindrops began to fall.

He almost smiled in relief as he realized where he was. The Leaky Cauldron! He hadn't been here in ages, not since he'd last played a match in London (which the Puddlemere United had lost abysmally, he recalled with a slight grimace). Oliver checked his pocket. Yes, he had a Sickle or two, enough to get some alcohol. And what better day to get plastered than the day of Dumbledore's funeral?

Oliver ducked inside, and grinned at the pub's owner. "'lo, Tom."

Tom looked surprised, and then smiled. "Haven't seen you in ages, Ollie." He waved a hand towards a seat, and added, "Pick your poison." Lips twisting wryly, the barkeep added, "Though I'm afraid the strongest stuff's already been used up."

The Quidditch player blinked. "Already?" He glanced at the clock. "It's only half past four, who'd be..." He trailed off. He had automatically glanced around to see who had been so...ambitious...so early in the day, and had seen a slumped-over redhead at the bar. With flaming red hair like that, it was obviously a Weasley, but which one?

Tom jerked a thumb towards the redhead and mouthed "Totally pissed" before he said, "What'll it be then?"

"Oh, ah, just some rum, please." As Tom nodded and went to pour him a mug, Oliver glanced curiously at the drunken redhead. He couldn't help but sidle closer. None of the Weasley clan had seemed the drinking sort, as far as he could tell. Well, at least not the drink-until-you-can't-sit-upright drinking sort.

Unable to restrain his curiosity, he sat down next to the Weasley and recognized the curve of his neck from all those years spent out on the Quidditch field, doing laps or other such training with the redhead. One of the twins then. Biting his lip, he made a desperate gamble. "Fred?"

The redhead lifted his head from the counter, cheeks flushed and eyes glazed. He blinked and stared at Oliver for a moment, as though not quite sure if he was hallucinating or not. Then he moistened his lips and laughed, a hoarse, bitter sound that made Oliver flinch. "A fif'y-fif'y chance an' you blew it, Oliver Wood. A fif'y-fif'y chance..." George snickered, and then let his head fall back onto the bar with a painful thud. "A fif'y-fif'y..."

"George, what--" Oliver put his hand on the younger man's shoulder instinctively, eyes widening at the dampness that saturated his hand. George was sweating like he was in hell. He made his tone softer. "Want to talk about it?"

"No." George struggled to lift up his head once more and waved a vague hand to summon Tom. He blinked, seeming surprised to find the man standing just behind the counter, Oliver's rum in hand. "Gettin' pissing drunk is how I like to do things, thanks." George grinned up at the barkeep and pulled out a handful of currency. Several Knuts and Sickles spilled carelessly onto the counter. "Gimme some more, please?"

"We've run out of the strongest stuff," said Tom evenly, and George looked almost frantic for a second, his normally amiable features going tight and stretched.

"Second-strongest then! Whatever you can, man, please!"

"Sure," was all Tom said as he moved further down the bar to apparently get the Weasley the second-strongest drink in the place.

Oliver gazed at his rum for a moment, and then pushed it at George, who was still looking a little panicky. "Here. One on me."

George pounced on it and shot Oliver a grateful look. "Thanks, mate." In a few quick mouthfuls, the rum was gone, and the Weasley was smirking faintly. "Have t'remember that... If you drink stuff that _will _peel paint, it'll peel your tastebuds too, so don't bother with any fancy-tastin' stuff aft'wards..." His head drooped for a moment, and then he forced his head up, blinking at the Quidditch player. "Why're you here?"

"Well, we were supposed to play a match, but of course it was cancelled."

George's face darkened, and he automatically put the mug to his lips even though it was empty. He sighed and set it down with a look of regret. "O' course." His shoulders seemed to cave, suddenly, and the Weasley looked old and empty. Was this what Arthur Weasley would've looked like if he'd never met Molly and never had such a close-knit family? "O' course..."

Anyone with half a mind could see it was time to change the subject, and Oliver cleared his throat. "I'm afraid I haven't kept up with many of my yearmates, or anyone from Hogwarts really. How's the family?" He knew it was a mistake to ask about George's family as soon as the question was out of his mouth, and he grimaced as the redhead's expression darkened further.

George spoke slowly, as if it was an effort to speak. "Mum is...terrified...o' one of us dyin'...Dad's bein' run...ragged by the Mins'stry, Bill's face is now a mess o' scars..." He paused and unsteadily grabbed the drink that Tom had returned with, trying to gulp down what hadn't spilled. "Fred...hates my guts, Ron's off to...die some heroic death with Harry no dou', and Ginny's a whore... What else d'you want to know?"

The redhead looked at him, face bleak, and for the first time, Oliver despaired. After all, if one of the _twins_ was losing hope, then where did that leave the rest of the wizarding world?

Still, much to his surprise, he found himself murmuring, "You, ah, forgot about Percy."

"Percy!" George's features lightened suddenly, and he snickered. "No, I didn't forget the git...he forgot us... E'en when Fudge was sacked he didn' want to come home." He took a desperate swallow of his drink's contents, and added harshly, "No, Percy's not a Weasley anymore. Just like Fred an' me won't be either. You think the Weasley clan's close-kni', but if you fuck up, and believe me, we've fucked up, you're finished. For good." He gazed gloomily at his yet-again empty mug, and whispered something, so low that Oliver knew he had to have heard wrong.

After all, what would possess George Weasley to claim he'd been the one to cause Dumbledore's death?

* * *

Scrigemour wore a properly solemn expression almost the entire day of Dumbledore's funeral, and murmured soft words of encouragement to his employers that looked weepy. Inwardly, though, he was wearing a smile that would have rivaled the Cheshire Cat; however, he knew full well it'd seem odd to be grinning on this day. He'd told Weasley to take the day off; the man had needed a break, and besides, Scrigemour had things to do that Weasley wasn't involved in, things that he didn't want Weasley to know about until everything was actually settled.

He settled down at his desk, and glanced at the clock. A quarter before five? Damn, he'd missed the execution then. Scrigemour gritted his teeth, fighting disappointment. Well, he'd be able to attend the other two. Soothed somewhat by that fact, he glanced up at the knock on his door.

"It's me."

"Come in," Scrigemour said, and had to fight hard to keep from sounding excited as one of his long-time companions entered the room. "Welcome, Sicarius. I hope the execution went smoothly?"

Sicarius, top Auror now that Scrigemour was Minister of Magic and no longer had that title, smiled thinly. He was a razor-thin man, his features and frame all angles, and his cheekbones seemed sharp enough to draw blood. "Very smoothly, sir."

"Did he have any final words?"

Sicarius shook his head, and when he spoke, the words were indifferent. After all, as far as Sicarius knew, the false witness had been honest, and the Auror felt nothing for a man he thought was a Death Eater. "He was just crying, Rufus. If he said anything, no one would've been able to understand it." He pulled a parchment from his robes, and offered it up to the Minister. "Now, I believe you asked for this..."

Scrigemour snatched it and had to fight back a triumphant smile as he read the content of the parchment. "Wonderful," he breathed. "This is precisely what I needed. Thank you, Sicarius..." He rolled the parchment back up and cradled it for a moment before he looked up and asked, "And what about the search of the Weasley twins's store?"

"We confiscated all of the merchandise that aided Malfoy in his attack on Hogwarts, and have put the word out that it is now an illegal item. Anyone found with it will be fined severely."

"Wonderful," said Scrigemour again, and chuckled suddenly. "Did they protest at all?"

Sicarius shook his head. "One of them seemed about to when we started confiscating things, but the other one kept him quiet." He hesitated, and a flicker of doubt appeared on his face. "You mentioned something about arresting them?"

Seeing the doubt, Scrigemour quickly backpedaled for a moment to Plan B. Luckily he had thought Sicarius might hesitate about arresting the twins. He would just have to deal with them in another way... Good thing he'd thought of a second plan beforehand, he thought with a mental smirk. "Yes, but don't worry about it, Sicarius. I don't think we'll need to go that far, unless they have further dealings with the Death Eaters."

The Auror looked a little relieved, and nodded. "Do you want me to do anything about that?" He gestured towards the parchment, and Scrigemour stared almost lovingly down at it.

"Not yet...but start monitoring his movements. I want to know where he's going, what he's doing, and who he's speaking to..." He tapped the parchment and smiled darkly.

"I want to know everything about Remus Lupin."

* * *

"I'm sorry, I'm afraid I don't know how to make tea very well," Percy confessed, looking flustered, and Remus resisted the urge to sigh. The Weasley hadn't changed much -- still looking for approval from everyone but himself.

"It's fine tea," he assured the redhead, and to prove he meant it, took another sip. True, it was a bit sweeter than Remus normally liked it, but he wouldn't mention that to Percy.

Looking heartened by the reassurance, Percy took a sip from his own cup, and added, "I'm afraid I haven't gotten much on Scrigemour over the past few days. He's been more and more secretive lately -- he's either beginning to suspect me or he's doing things he'd...rather have me not know about even if I'm his supporter." He frowned. "I think I'm more worried about the latter. We can always get another spy into the Ministry, after all..."

Yes, after Scrigemour had seen to it that Percy was executed, no doubt, Remus mused, looking more closely at Percy. The redhead looked _tired_, with such dark shadows under his eyes that they seemed more like bruises. He'd gotten paler too, each freckle showing up on his ashen visage.

"What information do you have?" Remus asked in a quiet voice.

Percy set his cup down and got to his feet. "Let me get the copies of the letters that seemed suspicious..." He disappeared from the room, and the werewolf took the opportunity to slide out his wand and whisper a spell over the redhead's tea. There, that should give him a boost of energy and help him sleep better. Oh, and calm the lad down.

"Here you go, sir," said Percy when he returned, and offered several letters to him that were written in the Ministry of Magic's firm, elegant hand and others that were in an unfamiliar handwriting and signed by a man he didn't know. Who was Pennafort?

He read through them, frowning a little. "I can't get much from them, but it does seem as though he's planning something behind Sicarius' back..." Looking up, Remus asked, "Do you have any clue what he might be up to?"

The spy wore an unsettled look. "No, sir, I really don't. I'll be sure to give you any information I can, but all I can guess is that he might be dabbling in some desperate measures to win this war. He..." Percy looked down and took a long sip of his tea. "He says thing that...trouble me."

"Like?" Remus pressed when the younger man fell silent.

"Like Dumbledore's death being unavoidable... That it was tragic, but that great men die during war..."

Remus frowned. "Unavoidable? That was his exact wording?" When Percy nodded, he frowned to himself. Dumbledore's death unavoidable...the idea left a bitter taste in his mouth, and he sipped at the over-sweet tea to compensate. "Just do the best you can, Percy. That's all we -- I -- can ask of you. Even an odd wording might be important in the long run."

"Yes, sir."

He sighed. "Please, call me Remus." The werewolf smiled. "After all, we're colleagues in this battle, aren't we?"

The Weasley just stared at him for a moment, but Remus gazed calmly back. The lad needed to learn that formality wasn't always needed. At last, Percy flushed a little and mumbled, "Very well, Remus."

"See?" Remus kept his voice mild. "That couldn't have been dreadful." He chuckled. "At least, I hope it wasn't."

Percy just flushed darker, and Remus dropped the topic, instead looking around the living/dining room. It was such a barren little place -- surely the man could afford to decorate even the slightest bit? It was so white and...bleak. He hid his thoughts behind a warm smile. Still, Remus tried to find something, anything, to compliment his companion about. He looked down at his cup, almost desperate, and was dismayed to notice it too was slightly cracked. Finally, he said, "Those were excellent copies. How did you manage to get them with Scrigemour's exact handwriting if they're not the actual letters?"

He almost sighed in relief as Percy brightened at that, and immediately launched into an eager explanation of a spell he'd found that he'd thought he'd try to and then realized how a variation would be far better, and how he'd been working for a while on several other spells...

Well, at least Percy was looking the happiest he had during their entire conversation.

* * *

Fred's elbows were beginning to ache. After all, they'd been propping up his head for the past hour or two. He'd lost track of the time. At last though, he shifted, rubbing at his itchy eyes to gaze blearily at the clock. A quarter past five? That 'pint' of George's was taking a bloody long time.

He pressed his palms against his eyes, trying not to get emotional again. But he could feel George's anger and hurt -- it was like something oily and heavy in his stomach, weighing him down and making him ache. His eyes watered again, and Fred swore. Why wouldn't the git just come back so Fred could apologize shamelessly? Then this feeling of misery wouldn't be paining them both.

The redhead looked up at the sound of the front door to the shop opening, and scowled. He knew he was a mess -- eyes red-rimmed, cheeks splotchy, voice probably scratchy from the misery choking him. So why the hell was someone coming in when the sign outside clearly said "Closed"?

He scrambled to his feet and left the backroom, knowing his face wore a thunderous look. "Who the hell is it -- the sign says _closed_!" he began, voice throaty with vehemence, and then stopped, blinking, before his scowl darkened even more. "Get out," he fairly snarled at the Auror. "We already had everything searched and things bloody confiscated!"

The man just looked at him, and then smiled. It was a smile sharp enough to cut through flesh and bone, and some of Fred's vehemence was replaced by nervousness. Why was the top of Auror here?

He tried to make his tone more respectful. "Please, sir, it's been a trying day. What do you need?"

"I came to ask you about those Ten-Ton Toffees," said Sicarius, and Fred stared.

"Excuse me?"

The same thin smile stayed on the Auror's face. "Those Ton-Tongue Toffees...I need to collect some of them. They could be used against our forces, and we want to prevent that, of course."

"Of course...wait, what?" Fred openly gawked at that. "My...my Tongue-Ton Toffees. Used by the Death Eaters?" He couldn't help it; he laughed. "That's bloody ridiculous!"

The smile turned brittle, as did Sicarius's words. "Weasley, have you _seen_ what those toffees do? A man can very easily choke himself to death, and we know the elusive Illium also bought a large quantity of Tongue-Ton Toffees."

Fred felt the blood drain from his face, and said in a numb voice, "Of course. Have as many of the toffees as you need." He closed his eyes for a moment, trying not to think of Dudley Dursley's panicked face. That had seemed so funny at the time -- but what if it was George or Mum wearing that panicked expression? "Let me get them for you."

"Where is your brother?" Sicarius inquired as Fred went to grab a box of Tongue-Ton Toffees off the shelf. He was going to put the rest of them in storage until further notice. He doubted George would object.

"Oh, he's at the pub for a pint." Fred glanced at the clock and frowned. "Must've drunk himself silly."

Sicarius raised an eyebrow as the young man handed the toffees to him. "At the pub this early?"

Fred bristled. "_You'd_ need a bloody drink if your business had been poked and prodded by Aurors and you thought you might've accidentally had something to do with a great man like Dumbledore's death!" he snapped back.

"Then why aren't _you_ drinking?"

"If George has gotten plastered, he might need me," he said through clenched teeth. "So until he stumbles home or someone owls me to tell me he's staying the night somewhere, I'm not touching a pint."

"That's actually quite sensible of you, Weasley," said the Auror, and there was an underlying tone of approval that confused Fred.

"Common sense, yeah, I managed to get a bit of that from Mum," the redhead remarked dryly. "Anyway, is there anything else you need, sir? I don't think that the Canary Creams would be dangerous, or--"

"Anything can be dangerous in the wrong hands, Weasley. Power, money, childish toys, anything," Sicarius interrupted in a mild voice. Then he just looked at the redhead for a long, searching moment that made Fred want to fidget, and added, "Remember that."

"Yes, sir," Fred said, but couldn't help sounding a little sullen. The man was making him feel like he was back in Hogwarts again, facing the disapproval of someone like McGonagall. In fact, that's exactly who Sicarius reminded him of: McGonagall.

But Sicarius didn't seem to take offense at the sullen tone, in fact that brittle smile returned. "Just remember it, Weasley," he said, and was gone, along with the box of Tongue-Ton Toffees.

Fred frowned, thoroughly bewildered, but at least that confusing conversation had distracted him from George's torrent of despair for a few minutes. He sighed, weighed down again by his twin's anguish, and began to carry the other boxes of Tongue-Ton Toffees into the back.

(Author's Notes: Sicarius is the singular form of the word Sicarii. The Sicarii the Latin word for "daggermen" were Jewish zealots in 6 A.D. who assassinated all other Jews who didn't support their war against Rome. Needless to say, they were ruthless to anyone who disagreed with them. Would anyone like to guess who the mysterious Pennafort is based off?)


End file.
